


redamancy

by visiblemarket



Category: Constantine (TV)
Genre: M/M, and also table sex, but mostly it's about the ridiculous fluffy nonsense, creepy thoughts about death and murder, in the midst of ridiculous fluffy nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-13 00:38:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4501116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Is Kentucky still standing?"</i>
</p><p>  <i>“Yeah, and more’s the pity, too. Can’t get a decent meal there for love or money, mate."</i></p><p> <i>Chas laughs, which was the point, and presses his hand over his eyes. “Is that a hint?"</i></p><p> <i>It hadn’t been, but if Chas’s in the mood to play house, John’s not about to turn down a free meal. “Well, if you’re up to it.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	redamancy

**Author's Note:**

> Post "Blessed are the Damned".

The door rattles as it’s unlocked. He finds that comforting, in the “last line of defense” sort of way. Better than any kind of protection wards he could’ve put up. Must’ve been why Jasper left it like that. Or maybe he just never got around to fixing it; John can’t imagine it having been high on his list of priorities. It’s not precisely high on John’s, either. 

Chas’s voice cuts through mild gloom of the mill house and John’s thoughts. “Hey. I’m back.” 

“And what sort of hour do you call this, then?” he calls back, not bothering to lift his head from the couch. 

“What?” Chas’s footsteps echo, and then stop. John looks up: he’s at the near end of the couch, one hand on his hip, the other running distractedly through his own hair. 

“Nothing.” John sits up. “How’d it go?"

“Fine."

“She talking to you yet?"

Chas gives him a long, steady look. “Do you really care, or are you just asking?"

John shrugs. “Just askin’, mate. Sorry.” He is, a little, but in the end it’s rather pointless to care: Geraldine’s a sweet kid, very much her father’s child, and she’ll come ‘round just like he always does, given the time and space to do so. Every time Chas goes over there trying to fix things, he’s probably making it worse. John’s not about to say that, though. Wouldn’t want him taking it the wrong way.

“Yeah.” Chas sits down next to him, and slumps against the back of the couch. He’s tired, John realizes. Well of course he is; John’d be tired too, dealing with the drive, and Renee. One more than the other, certainly. Chas rubs the back of his neck and looks back at him. “How’d your thing go?"

“Oh, you know. Business as usual. Corrupted an angel. Debated the fine points faith with Zed. Barricaded a church door ‘gainst a horde of angry parishioners, that was a laugh.” 

“Is Kentucky still standing?"

“Yeah, and more’s the pity, too. Can’t get a decent meal there for love or money, mate."

Chas laughs, which was the point, and presses his hand over his eyes. “Is that a hint?"

It hadn’t been, but if Chas’s in the mood to play house, John’s not about to turn down a free meal. “Well, if you’re up to it.” 

Chas huffs another laugh, and groans a little as he sits up. “If I’m up to it…” he says, shaking his head, and pulls himself up. He offers John a hand; John takes it, lets himself be dragged up, even though he knows he's essentially conscripting himself to more time in the kitchen than he’d like. 

Once John's on his feet, Chas drops his hand, as expected. And then he sighs, shakes his head, takes a quick step into John's space, cradles John’s face in his massive hands, and kisses him. This is somewhat more of a surprise.

And it's a quick kiss; a peck, really, not out of the realm of friendly affection, not meant to linger. But it startles John, who is by no means easily started: Chas could have walked into the room stark bloody naked and with a second head, and John wouldn't've blinked; not like he hasn't seen worse, after all.

But it's rare for Chas to initiate, and even when he does, Chas doesn't kiss him like this--full of familiarity but without expectation. Chas is kissing him for the sake of kissing him, nothing more and nothing less than that, and John's jaw drops in shock. 

Chas tenses, for a second, before he sighs, tips John's head further back, and slides his tongue into John's mouth. John's body reacts before John's mind can put a stop to it: presses tight against Chas's chest, the warm, solid mass of him, as John's hands skim their way down Chas's sides, across his stomach, and make quick work Chas's belt. Because John may be in shock and out of his element, but that's the best time to play dirty, and if there's one thing John knows, it's how to play dirty. And, truth be told, the day he's had? He could use a good lay, and the fact of the matter is, Chas is a _very_ good lay. He slips his hand into Chas's pants and rubs, not quite having the angle for a good, steady stroke, but it's enough for Chas's cock to swell against his palm. 

He half expects Chas to pull away; Chas doesn't, just presses closer, threads his fingers through John's hair and twists, just enough to sting, just enough to dip John's head back further. 

"Hold on," Chas says, low and breathless. John grins, and squeezes. Chas groans, thrusting into his grip, before he drops his hand, wraps his fingers around John's wrist. “ _Wait_ ," he breathes.

“But _Daddy_ ," he whines, only half in earnest, but enough, apparently, to get Chas kissing him again. John wonders if he should feel some shame at it, how quick he is to play Chas, how good at it he is. He doesn’t, clearly. Chas is half-hard already, and his hold on John’s wrist loosens, then drops. 

John makes his strokes fast and rough, and Chas leans into his touch, wrapping an arm around John’s waist and pulling him closer. He drops his mouth to John’s neck, sucking lightly at the soft skin beneath John’s ear; John’d rather Chas use his teeth, but it’s all right for now, and he tilts his head, trying to encourage him. Chas inhales, deep, and exhales against John’s throat.

“What’re you doing, John?"

John sighs; all he really wants is a quick, rough fuck that he'll be feeling for days to come, pun fully intended, and if he plays his cards right, he may just get one. 

“Should think that’d be obvious, mate,” he says, slowing the pace of his hand to a stop; Chas sways into him, rubbing himself against John’s palm. “Ah, there it is. Gettin’ the picture, are we?” 

“John.” It’s sharp, something of a reprimand, but he’s not pulling away. Not asking for anything, of course, but hardly turning it down. 

John looks up at him. Drags his hand along the length of Chas’s cock, fingers lingering along every inch. It takes a while; Chas's a big lad in all the best ways, and John’s willing to take his time. He finishes with a twist of his wrist, and Chas lets out a sound, a low, almost surprised grunt. 

“This isn’t what I—"

“’s what you want now, though."

“ _Jesus_ ,” Chas says, and John knows that tone, knows he’s won, and starts to grin, before he notices the arm sliding around his thighs, right beneath his arse, and feels himself hoisted up and against the broad expanse of plaid and radiating warmth that is Chas’s chest.

He throws his arms around Chas’s neck and smirks. “That’s more—"

“Shut up,” says Chas, kissing him quiet, and it’s not the most original of strategies but John lets him win that one, clings to Chas with his arms around Chas’s neck and his legs around Chas’s waist, and kisses back. 

Chas holds him up like it's nothing, like he's weightless, and he might as well be, to Chas, in terms of actual mass if nothing else. In terms of the metaphorical, John has no illusions about _not_ being a great bloody albatross around Chas's neck.

"What're you thinking about?" Chas says, nuzzling their noses together, an oddly affectionate move that John’s seen him execute but never experienced. He allows it because the alternative's being dropped on his arse onto a hard stone floor, and he'd rather keep his arse where it is, cradled in the warm and strong embrace of Chas's broad hands.

“What it’d take for you to fuck me like this," John manages, and Chas rolls his eyes.

“Ten years ago, maybe,” he says, which isn't really an answer, before kissing John again.

John lets himself be kissed, and holds on to him, partly out of self-preservation and fear of falling, but mostly out of the low, simmering need for closeness. Chas makes a faint, possibly pleased noise, and pulls John against his chest, even tighter than before, so tight that John feels forced to breath with him, match each inhale with an exhale, each rise of his chest met with the bowing of John's. Chas's tongue flickers against his and John chases it, turning his head for the better angle, practically climbing Chas's chest in his efforts to deepen the kiss.

He's so caught up in it he barely notices that they’ve taken a turn toward the kitchen and not the bedroom before Chas deposits him, carefully, firmly, on the sturdy wood of the table. He steps back and looks at John, gauging his reaction; John lifts his eyebrows, and Chas shrugs, noncommittal, quietly uncertain.

John smirks. “Gettin’ adventurous in our _old age_ , are we?" he says, giving in to the impulse to goad him a bit.

Chas seems aware of it, remains unruffled, for the time being, and shrugs. “Take it or leave it."

"Well, you know how it is, mate," he says, leering, letting his voice drop as he reaches behind him. "Always up for _taking_ it, me." Chas's eyes flicker with exasperation, but he takes a step closer, and John grins, pushing several articles of varying value and magical significance to the floor with a theatrical sweep of his arm: something clatters, something rolls off, something else shatters, and overall, John doesn't care.

He drags himself up along the dark wood, and Chas follows, kneeling between John's spread legs and leaning over his chest.

They stare at each other for a beat. Chas has never had much of a poker face and now, especially, he's disturbingly easy to read: annoyance, arousal, a deep-seated fondness that John has always found fundamentally disquieting, not so much because he doesn't deserve it (which of course he doesn't), but because a part of him will always see it as a challenge. John feels a twinge of guilt at that and reaches out. Grabs at Chas's shirt, twists his fingers into it for a better grip, and pulls him down. 

They share a sloppy, desperate sort of kiss; John sucks at his tongue and Chas reaches for his belt, fumbling John's zipper open, giving John's cock a couple of quick, shallow strokes. John's hard already and rocks into his grip, lifting his hips as Chas one-handedly wrestles John's trousers off. 

“Careful,” Chas says, barely bothering to pull their mouths apart, and John thrust up recklessly in response, mostly to see what he’ll do about it. 

Laugh, apparently. 

Laugh, and pin him back down against the table easily, one palm splayed completely across John's chest. John's struck, as he often is, by how easily Chas could destroy him, how simple it would be for him to wrap his hand around John’s throat and watch the life bleed out of him. He wonders if Chas's ever thought of it. He must have, surely; John's deserved it, more than once, more than once that Chas knows about, even. 

"What?" Chas says, apparently uneasy at the attention, and John blinks.

"Condoms."

"Yeah?"

"In my--uh--" he turns his head, and gestures at the chair, where his bag had managed to land, upright, after having been flung off the table in John's show of mad passion; John's things have a strange way of taking care of themselves in the end.

Chas chuckles, to himself or at John, and leans over, rummaging through the bag with one hand while the other remains across John's chest. John watches him: it's a brave man who'll go through John Constantine's baggage, or a fool. Chas is a bit of both, really. And he's so bloody attractive, up close, in the simplest, basest of ways: big and broad and inevitable. So utterly _present_ , even when he's looking away; he's still mostly dressed and his thick, dark hair is mussed from where John's been running his fingers through it, and the strands of it that usually fall gently across his forehead are tangled. John is struck by the sudden urge to push them back. He runs a hand up along Chas's side instead, slides it under his shirt. His skin is warm, smooth, deceptively whole. Chas glances back at him, uncertain, and John smirks and slides his hand lower. 

Chas's steady breaths stutter a bit as John gives his cock a couple of quick, glancing pulls, but he rolls his eyes and goes back to looking for the condoms almost immediately.

"How the..." he bites his lip and his eyelashes flutter as John tightens his grip. "How the hell d'you find anything in here?"

John grins. "Know where t' look." 

Chas laughs again, and stops rummaging.“Had a lot of spare time in Kentucky, huh?” 

He's still smiling, bringing with him a bottle of lube and the long chain of unused condoms John had thrown in, more to shock Zed than anything. And John hesitates; he could lie, he could spin a lurid tale of a quick fuck with a lush blond southern belle or sweet-faced farm boy, he could tease Chas into a possessive frenzy. He hasn’t before, but he could, surely. 

But he hesitates, and in the time that takes, Chas’s brow has furrowed. “Hey, aren’t these—“ John grabs at his shirt, and drags him back down into a kiss.

It's different now, more focused; Chas breathes heavily into John's mouth, yanking off John's tie, fumbling distractedly at the buttons of John's shirt. John shifts underneath him, squirming till he can line up their cocks. John flexes his hips, slowly, deliberately, and Chas matches him with a careful thrust of his own. 

It's good.

No, Christ, it's glorious. Not what he'd been looking for, exactly, but Chas is thick and warm and solid and John can't think of anything else when he's that close, which is the best of it, really. They rub up against each other like teenagers and Chas's hand slides up along John's chest then beneath him and up, to cradle the back of John's head. It's kind of him. Thoughtful. John nips at his lower lip in thanks, and Chas groans and pulls back.

Looks down at John, eyes hooded, mouth open, panting and desperate and John reaches up to run his hands through Chas's hair. 

"God," he says, and Chas leans back into him, as if drawn there, as if unable to escape. They share a breath. "God, I want you." 

"You--" Chas swallows, and then kisses him again. His mouth, his neck. He fumbles with John's shirt again, lets out a low, frustrated laugh. "Oh, what the hell,"' he huffs, and rips John's shirt open without a second thought. 

"What the--what the hell," John repeats, weakly, heart racing as Chas's hands slide up and down along his now-bare chest. 

"Sorry."

John arches his back, chasing the friction of Chas's calloused palms as they trail down his ribs. "Make it up to me, mate." 

Chas ducks his head. "With my dick?"

"Y'said it not..." Chas slides a hand between John's legs, giving John's cock a rough stroke, and John moans. "Not me."

Chas grins to himself, smug, as his hand slips lower, and John rolls his eyes. "Don't take for-bloody- _ever_ with it, all right?"

To his credit, he doesn't; John hates being fucking coddled and has never needed much in terms of preparation, but has come to terms with Chas's apparent fondness for fingering John till he's practically boneless and entirely useless to the proceedings. But Chas is quicker about it than usual today, dropping his head to suck at John's nipples as he works John open. He uses enough lube to save them both from major discomfort, but there's still a delightful stinging stretch as he pushes into John, slowly, steadily.

John groans in satisfaction, paralyzed by the fullness. He can barely think as Chas leans over to cradle his face again, to run his fingers through John's hair, to kiss him, lightly, as he adjusts. John reaches for him, slides his hands under Chas's shirt again, up his back, along his spine. Chas gives an unnecessarily careful thrust in response, and then another, then eases John's head back and gives him a long, steady look.

"John," he says, softly, almost like it's a question. 

John blinks up at him, struggling to focus. "Who else, mate?"

Chas laughs, and shakes his head. "God knows."

"Wouldn't bet on it," he says, wrapping his legs around Chas's waist and digging his heels into the small of Chas's back.

Chas gets the picture. Kisses him again. Fucks him, slower than usual, and John resists the urge to squirm. Lets himself enjoy it. Chas wraps his arm under John's back and pulls him up, drops his face to John's neck. John half-turns his head and closes his eyes, buries his nose in Chas's hair. Chas thrusts again and the table creaks beneath them, which does nothing to discourage him; his pace quickens, in fact, and John is both surprised and strangely proud of him for it.

Chas murmurs something against his skin and John nods in mindless agreement, which is a mistake, probably, but it earns him a kiss and a hand around his cock, rough and quick and a little too tight. John can't breathe like this, can't think, not with Chas inside of him and on top of him and around him. John's heart stutters, his vision whites, and he comes, falling back down against the table as he does.

Chas knows better than to stop, but he slows, pressing his wet palm against John's stomach, pushing into him with a steady, deliberate rhythm. His eyes are closed and his mouth is open and John can't stop watching him, even as his heart pounds and lungs ache for want of air. He's not beautiful, precisely, but he's fascinating: broad and powerful and shaking with contained emotion. John is torn between wanting to touch him and being glad he's still too fucked out to move. 

Chas barely groans when he comes, but he slams into John hard enough that the table screeches across the floor, buries himself so deeply in John's body that John knows he's going to feel it for days, and collapses against John's chest.

John shuts his eyes and exhales, bracing for the inevitable wave of post-coital affection. Chas sighs, and kisses the side of his neck, and then slides out of him, carefully, but quicker than John expects. He cracks his eyes open; Chas's head is down, and his hands have slipped from John's stomach, and are pulling off the condom with uneasy fingers. John lets his legs fall away from Chas's waist, and Chas's head jolts up. 

"Somewhere else to be, mate?" he says, lightly, and Chas drops his gaze. 

"I need to--" he shakes his head. "I need a shower."

John swallows the impulse to ask if he'd like some company. Chas finishes buckling his belt and zipping up his trousers. He seem to notice the state of John's shirt, and winces, gently picking at one end of it. "Sorry about that."

John forces a laugh. "'Not like I haven't got a spare."

Chas chuckles, and leans over to kiss him again. John keeps his mouth closed, but his hand slides up along Chas's shoulder anyway. Chas tenses, slightly, and pulls back. "Give me fifteen minutes, okay?"

John lets his head fall back against the table and shuts his eyes. "Go ahead and take twenty, love."

*

Chas takes about thirty, John would guess; not that John's keeping track, but by the time Chas reappears, fully dressed and smelling of cheap soap, his hair's almost dry and he's lost the flush of the freshly fucked. John, for his part, has had the time to retrieve the majority of his clothes, slip on boxers and a t-shirt, track down a pack of cigarettes, consider clearing the assorted magical debris off the floor, and decide to leave it for tomorrow.

He's also made it to the kitchen, which is where Chas finds him, digging through the refrigerator. 

"What're you making?" he says, in that casual, patronizing way he's got that means he's worried about what John's up to, but isn't willing to stop him just yet. 

"Eggs."

Chas laughs; it sounds uneasy, to John's ears, but he seems calm enough when he steps around John and tries to pull the carton from John's grasp like he's afraid John'll hurt himself with it. 

"Really?" John says, fighting him more for appearance's sake than anything, before relinquishing the eggs. "What d'you think I'm gonna do with those, raise an army of satanic bloody chickens?" 

Chas turns away from him; his shoulders are tense and his voice is low when he speaks again. "Just let me, okay?" 

"Okay," John says, quietly, and retreats.

Chas moves with a certain amount of thoughtless confidence in the kitchen, the kind he lacks in most other circumstances. John's not one to judge, really; they've all got their little ways of finding control in an uncertain world, and at least Chas's keeps them fed. 

John watches as he pulls a couple more ingredients from the refrigerator; not one to settle for the simple when he could make things complicated, is Chas. His broad arms flex under the dark shirt he's wearing, and John leans back, reaching for the cigarettes he'd brought with him to the kitchen. 

John saunters toward the stove; Chas seems to sense his proximity and glances over at him, sighs, and hands him a chipped plate. John smirks and takes it, flipping on a burner to light his cigarette. He goes to turn it off but Chas pushes his hand away and steps toward him, sliding a frying pan over the flame. John stays put, smokes silently as Chas works, scrunching his nose at the smell as if they don't both know how fond of it he is. John takes care to blow the smoke away from him anyway, as the aroma of potatoes and eggs and assorted vegetables fills the room.

Eventually, John sidles closer, and bumps his forehead against Chas's shoulder. Chas sighs and pats awkwardly at John's chest before sliding his arm around John's waist. Chas kisses the top of his head and nudges him back a few steps, before flipping the bubbling yellowish mass into the air and back to the frying pan in one strong, smooth twist of the wrist. 

"Impressive," John snarks, turning his head to take a drag from his cigarette.

"Practice," Chas says, calm again. John pulls away to use his make-shift ashtray, and finds himself reeled back against Chas's chest once he's done, held for a solid few seconds, and then released without a word.

*

They eat in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, mostly in silence. There's a moment of hesitation when they finish, while Chas decides whether or not he'll clean the dishes immediately, giving John an excuse not to trail him back to his room for the night. But exhaustion, apparently, wins, and Chas sighs, dumps the plates in the sink, and glances over at John, who shrugs, grins, and strolls back toward Chas's room.

Chas follows him, smiling as John flops onto his bed. John watches him undress; it's decidedly unerotic and Chas seems entirely unconcerned by the attention, folding up his shirt and trousers and rolling up his socks.

John stretches out. "Couldn't find my bloody tie," he says, conversational. 

Chas turns off the overhead light. "We'll look for it in the morning." 

"We?" John scoffs, flipping on the lamp beside him. "Didn't tear it off myself, did I?"

The bed sags and Chas pushes John onto his side, making room for himself on the bed. "Not like you don't have a spare." 

John rolls back toward him, response sharp on edge of his tongue, and then Chas kisses him: slow and fond but a little careful, a little nervous. John kisses back with none of that caution, just opens his mouth and takes what he can, nips at Chas’s lips, sucks at his tongue, wraps his arm around the back of his neck and drags him over, till Chas is practically on top of him. John arches against him, and winces; he's too sore to go again, but he doubts Chas would ask it of him, so there's no harm in it, in throwing himself at Chas and doing his best to melt into him.

When Chas pulls away, he’s breathless, and John can’t help but smile.

Chas smiles back and presses a quick, soft kiss to his lips. “You wanna hear something weird?"

“Always,” John says, though the real answer is _No, never, it always starts bad and gets catastrophically bloody worse._

Chas looks down at him, hazel eyes soft and hooded. “I actually missed you.” 

John stares up at him for a moment, and then laughs. “Christ. Well, ta for that, mate. Really, just—"

“John—"

“No, mate, I’ve got it."

“I’m just saying.” And there’s a timbre to his voice, then, that John can’t quite ignore, no matter how much he’d like to. 

“Right,” he manages, mind trying to whirl back into functionality. Chas just laughs and rolls off him, switches off the light, and still John's thinking of how to answer him.

"Good night, John," he says, and John blinks.

"'night, mate." He rolls onto his side, bundles his pillow up under his head. His neck twinges, and he clears his throat. “Had a hell of a time sleepin’ these past coupla nights."

"Yeah?" He hears Chas turn, feels the bed shift a little as Chas snuggles up behind him, pressing his chest to John's back and drapping an arm over John's ribs. They'd fucked like that once, too tired and broken to do anything but rock against each other till they'd both come; Chas had bitten his neck and left a bruise that'd lasted for a week. They've slept like that more times than John cares to remember.

"Yeah," he says, shivering a little as Chas's beard brushes against his skin. "Got this bloody kink in my neck, right? Been killin' me since--for the past coupla days, anyway."

"Here?" Chas says, pressing a kiss to his neck.

"Up, a bit."

"Mm," Chas murmurs against his skin. "There?"

"Lower," John says, not even bothering to hide the grin in his voice.

Chas laughs, a low, sleepy chuckle that hits John hard in the raw, aching cavity of his chest. He exhales, heavily, wishing for the cigarettes he'd left in the kitchen. Chas is still kissing the back of his neck, and the friction of his beard against skin is strangely soothing. 

"Chas?"

“Yeah?"

“Didn’t screw anyone in Kentucky."

Chas presses a kiss to the base of his neck. “Somehow I doubt that."

John blinks. Trust Chas to get bloody clever on him _right now_. “I meant—"

Chas’s arm tightens around him, and dragging him back, pressing him even tighter against Chas's chest. 

“I know what you meant.”

*

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this a very long time ago. I thought it was honestly about time that I actually posted it.


End file.
